


Standing in Our Own Sunshine

by lonelywalker



Series: Standing in Our Own Sunshine [1]
Category: The Art of Fielding - Chad Harbach
Genre: Age Difference, Baseball, Canon Character of Color, Canon Gay Relationship, Eating Disorders, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 17:22:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelywalker/pseuds/lonelywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slight AU regarding Guert, Owen, and the final game of the season.</p><p>Spoilers for the whole novel. Title from Emerson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Standing in Our Own Sunshine

Henry said barely two words for most of the flight. Most of the time he was asleep, or at least pretending to be, his head occasionally bumping against the edge of his seat by Affenlight’s shoulder. Affenlight had met him out by the Melville statue before dawn, both of them hoisting bags over their shoulders, both bleary and numb after too little sleep. 

When they reached the airport, two hours later, Affenlight was awake enough to buy coffee and browse the bookshelves while Henry slumped against a wall and waited for their flight to be called. Affenlight regarded him with concern and the sort of parental mystification he usually reserved for Pella. But Henry wasn’t his son, and Pella’s problems had always been ones she’d directed outward. Pella, or at least the teenage version of her, would never have stood still for half as long. 

On the plane, he made sure Henry actually ate the food they were served, even though that meant showing a good example by eating it himself. What he wanted was a cigarette, not a greasy omelet, but he felt better afterward and hoped Henry did too.

“You’re sleeping with Owen,” Henry said. His voice was just soft enough that Affenlight didn’t feel obliged to look over his shoulder. Besides, no one on the plane knew who they were, let alone who Owen was. Did he care if someone thought he was gay? Did he care if it were true?

Affenlight closed his book and glanced over. “Yes.”

Henry nodded. He rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand, like a small child. He’d shaved since the previous evening. He still looked ill, but he also seemed much younger. Two years younger than Pella: Owen’s age. Owen seemed young too, but filled with a self-possession and confidence Henry had only ever been able to imitate out on the baseball field.

“Don’t hurt him,” Henry said. It wasn’t a threat or a plea, it just was. And then the seatbelt sign blinked on.

During the cab ride to the stadium, Affenlight searched his memories of the night before, trying to recall what either one of them had said about Owen, or about Affenlight’s own current situation. Nothing raised a red flag. So perhaps Henry, whose parents had cost Affenlight his job and likely a relationship too, truly was nothing more than a good friend. Affenlight thought, not for the first time, about the three years Henry had spent living with Owen, sleeping beside him, and, not for the first time, felt almost sick with envy.

It was Henry, however, who looked likely to lose his breakfast when they were dropped off outside the stadium. He stood stock still, frozen in place as he stared at the entranceway. 

“Five minutes till the game,” Affenlight said. He had a Westish tie in his jacket pocket he’d been planning to don, to show support, but he left it where it was. It was a Saturday, after all, and no one would care what he was wearing.

Henry swallowed. “I shouldn’t have come. It’s bad luck. I’ll just…”

Affenlight pressed a hand into Henry’s back. “You’re half the reason the team made it this far in the first place. Win or lose, you’ve all done us proud.”

“I fucked up,” Henry said, and his steps were faltering, but at least they were moving.

“We all fuck up,” Affenlight told him with a renewed spirit of falsely good cheer. “We just have to try not to keep fucking up.”

The usher was reluctant to let the two of them in without tickets, but Affenlight was apparently sufficiently presidential in appearance and bearing to just about convince him, and then Henry yanked out his team shirt from his bag, and that tipped them neatly over the edge. He had to keep a hand on Henry’s back all the way into the stadium and up the stairs, and fortunately the effort of making Henry keep going meant he couldn’t dwell too much on his own misgivings about being there. 

The Westish supporters were few but colorful and loud, so they made their way down to the navy-and-ecru banners, which were largely manned by the mothers of the players. 

“Guert!” 

Genevieve Wister somehow managed to make a Harpooners t-shirt and baseball cap look like the height of elegance. She, like the rest of the parents, was beaming broadly as she gave him a welcoming, familial hug. “I didn’t know you were going to be here! And is this Henry? I recognize you from your photo, young man.”

Henry could look sheepish and vacant and ill all he liked, but he was still getting a warm, lasting hug from Genevieve. Out on the field, the Harpooners broke from their huddle and Owen, looking their way, smiled and waved, beckoning Henry with his glove. Several of the other boys joined him, summoning their errant shortstop onto the field with shouts Affenlight couldn’t quite make out over the general chatter of the crowd. 

“What are you waiting for?” One of the fathers, an older gentleman Affenlight hadn’t met before, clapped Henry on the shoulder.

Affenlight would have gone himself, given half a chance, if he were Henry’s age. He knew so much about the team now, had suffered through all their injuries and concerns, that it felt as if taking to the field would be like standing in the way of a bullet aimed at wounded, exhausted boys who had already given their all several times over. Henry, though, looked like he’d been asked to jump off the Empire State Building.

They all watched as Henry scrambled down on top of the dugout, and from there to the field. Affenlight, surrounded by people, had scarcely ever felt so alone. He shook hands with Professor Guladni from the math department and took a seat, more or less all of his attention on Owen, who was for once not napping in the outfield but standing there, the picture of a relaxed gentleman nonetheless.

Owen batted third for Westish, scoring the team the first point of the game as Adam Starblind skidded safely onto home plate. Affenlight cheered with the others and watched as Owen chatted to Henry at first base. Owen turned back to face the stands, his smile plain to see. Affenlight could only hope it was, at least partially, directed toward him.

Of all those gathered there in the front row of seats, only he had no familial connection with the players. They were all proud moms, dads, siblings, cousins, and girlfriends, all shouting for their man, unafraid to tell whoever would listen about his batting average or injury troubles. Affenlight was careful to barely mention Owen at all, let alone wax lyrical about his precision at bat.

It was, he reflected, an absolutely ridiculous situation to be in. He and Owen didn’t live in a theocratic third world country. They weren’t impossibly divided by questions of class in Victorian England. Now that Affenlight had been fired, more or less, there was nothing illicit about their relationship at all – what did anyone care about what two consenting adults did? Genevieve would be shocked, certainly, but Pella was getting over it and so would she in time, and if she didn’t, well Owen wouldn’t be the first man to choose a partner of whom his parents disapproved. Even in New York or San Francisco their age difference might raise eyebrows, but who really cared about that if he could walk down the street holding Owen’s hand, and go home with him at night… And perhaps that was the most ridiculous thought of all.

Part of him wanted to leave, to silently slip away and fly back to Westish and break everything off with everyone – officially resign his position, break up with Owen, and worry about what came next when everything else was neatly squared away. But there was O, out on the field, his every motion graceful, his every smile meant to flood Affenlight’s heart, and all he really wanted was to see Owen, speak to him, hold him, be held by him, have him say that everything would be fine. If it was a foolish fantasy, he wanted to live it for a few more hours at least.

Bottom of the ninth. The Harpooners, behind by one, were batting and, with Izzy Avila making it to first, Owen strolled out to bat. One out left in the season.

Affenlight didn’t want to watch: on the football field, even as quarterback, he’d never felt that the fortunes of the team rested solely on his shoulders. Now, all eyes were on Owen. If he could get a hit, the Harpooners still had a chance. If not, their season was over. His stomach was churning, yet Owen seemed as relaxed and unconcerned as ever. It had to be at least partially a façade, didn’t it? The Amherst pitcher was impressively powerful – and cruel. If anyone like that had threatened injury to Owen on the street, Affenlight – who had only ever had two fistfights in his entire life – would have taken him out without a thought. Now he could only watch.

Strike one. Strike two. Affenlight and, it seemed, everyone around him, held his breath. The crack of bat against ball, when it came, was impossibly clear – a single right up the middle, as Owen ran, really _ran_ to first base, in by a stride. 

Next was Mike Schwartz, Pella’s former boyfriend, who smashed a home run and, as Owen followed Izzy Avila home, diving safely into the dust and dirt, the stadium erupted. Affenlight had no idea where the Amherst players and fans went, but suddenly everything was just navy and ecru. Most of the parents made a break for the Westish dugout, jumping down to the field to grab Izzy and Owen and whoever else was wearing a team uniform. Affenlight, what the hell, joined them, congratulating Coach Cox and shaking Mike Schwartz’s hand and, finally, hugging Owen in what he hoped was a suitably manly, back-slapping fashion. 

“We won!” Owen said in his ear, breathless. “I’m so glad you’re here, Guert.”

Affenlight considered kissing him, or more likely finding someone less gay to hug in public, but as he and Owen broke apart there was a clatter of limbs and a sudden hush. Henry Skrimshander was lying in a heap by the dugout. 

The trainers were on him in a flash, yelling at everyone else to stay back. Mike Schwartz went to him anyway, as Henry’s spiritual next-of-kin, and minutes later there were paramedics on the scene, taking Henry away on a stretcher.

“They say he’s out cold,” Rick O’Shea announced to the crowd of people near where Affenlight was standing. “He’s breathing okay though.”

“We should go to the hospital,” Owen said. Mike Schwartz had disappeared with the paramedics, presumably to ride in the ambulance and give all of Henry’s details. At least he genuinely knew Henry inside-out.

Affenlight nodded. “Okay.” Much as he worried for Henry’s wellbeing, he was experiencing none of the terror that had possessed him on the night Owen had been hit. There was far less blood this time, for a start.

Owen, with all his composure and gravitas, convinced the other players to go on celebrating and his mother to stay put and take photographs, before gesturing for Affenlight to follow him. Outside the stadium Affenlight found a cab among the throng of departing fans, and the two of them ducked into it from opposite sides. 

Owen gave the driver the name of the hospital in his clearest, most polite voice, turned, and kissed Affenlight, a meeting of lips that lasted far beyond any attempt to explain it away as some sort of European-style friendly greeting. Affenlight had to wonder if Owen did such things mainly to shock him, but he was probably still abuzz with adrenaline, not thinking straight, and the driver didn’t even look round.

“Thanks for bringing Henry,” Owen said, strapping on his seatbelt.

“I should’ve taken him straight to St. Anne’s. I found him passed out in the bathtub in your room.”

“Has he eaten anything?”

“Cereal. Some breakfast on the plane.”

Owen patted his thigh. “He’ll be okay.” He looked out the window of the cab at traffic. “Can we have dinner together tonight?”

Affenlight considered it, trying not to spend too much time debating with himself. “If you like,” he said, after what was still probably too long. “But you just won a championship, O. You should celebrate with the team.”

“So should you.”

“I doubt they’d feel at liberty to get drunk with the school president around. Go to the party. I’ll wait up for you.”

They arrived at the hospital to find Mike Schwartz sitting alone in a row of chairs. He looked up. “Buddha. President Affenlight.”

“How’s our boy doing?” Affenlight asked, with another dose of false cheer. It was all too easy to forget just how young Mike was, how young they all were, and how wise and mature they probably expected him to be. Owen sat down opposite Mike, and Affenlight sat by him, at the end of the row.

“He's still out for the count, last I saw.” Mike scratched at his receding hairline. “They’re doing some tests. No big alarm but they’re worried he has some sort of head injury.”

“He probably just needs to sleep,” Owen said. “And take a few multivitamins. He’s skinnier than I am these days.”

“Probably.”

The three of them fell into a companionable, if worried, silence. Affenlight looked down, surprised, as Owen’s warm fingers clasped his own, but he squeezed Owen’s hand in response and Mike, seeing them, said nothing.

Affenlight’s phone rang. He checked the caller ID: Pella. Maybe she’d been watching the game in the student union. “Hi kiddo.” 

“Hi…” They hadn’t talked in weeks. Even if she sounded uncertain, it was good to hear her voice. “I’m in your apartment… where are you?”

“Oh. Didn’t you get my e-mail? I’m, uh, in South Carolina. With the baseball team.”

“With Owen.”

It was as if she could see through the phone, sensing Owen’s hand in his from hundreds of miles away. “Yes. And Mike Schwartz,” he added, just in case she imagined they were in bed together. “Actually we’re at the hospital. Henry collapsed.”

“Oh god, really?”

“We’re just waiting to hear… Are you all right?”

“What? Yes, of course…” He pictured her standing in his study, in the dark for some reason. “I just hoped you’d be home so we could…” A sigh. Not the petulant, teenage variety he’d long ago come to associate with her, but something infinitely wearier. “I’m tired of fighting.”

“Me too.”

“You’re not going to break up with him, are you?” It really wasn't a question.

Affenlight glanced at Owen and focused for a moment on the warmth of their hands together, thought about Owen coming to his hotel room later… He’d meant to do the right thing, whatever the right thing was for Owen and for Westish and, yes, for Pella too, but there was no world in which he could imagine voluntarily cutting himself off from Owen like that. “No,” he said and then, before she could warn him about getting fired again, added: “I’ll be back tomorrow morning. Maybe we can get some lunch. Talk.”

She was going to hate him all over again when he told her. She might hate Westish too, which seemed better than hating him, but in actuality was far worse. He’d already proved his unreliability as a father time and time again; Westish could be the kind of stability and security she needed, a real home, if she’d only let it.

“Yeah, we could do that. Let me know what happens with Henry, okay?”

“I will.”

“…I love you, Dad.”

It was as if someone had crunched up glass shards in his heart. Once he’d tried to remember her saying the words and come up blank beyond an image in his mind’s eye of a very small girl hugging him when he, too, was almost unbelievably young. “Love you too, sweetie.”

Shortly afterward, a doctor came to update them – or, really, Mike – on Henry’s condition. 

“The bottom line is he’ll be fine,” the young man said, gaze riveted on his clipboard. “Collapsing might have been the best thing to happen to your friend. It’s a good time we got to him when we did – I’ve never seen bloodwork like this in anyone but extreme anorexia patients… It’s almost like he tried to drown himself from the inside. But we’re putting him back on an even keel, physiologically speaking, and when he wakes up we’ll have a therapist speak to him…”

“I’m not sure he needs a _therapist_ ,” Mike said.

The doctor pushed the clipboard toward him. “You should see these numbers. He’s starved himself of practically every nutrient, mineral… even salt. I know you feel you know your friend better than I do, but I can tell you no one does this to themselves by accident.”

“When can we see him?” Owen asked while Mike soberly studied the blood test results.

“I doubt he’ll wake up before morning. You can see him then.”

“I should probably call his parents,” Mike said, as the three of them stood on the sidewalk outside the hospital, and patted his pockets. “Damn. We have to go back to the stadium. My phone’s there. And my clothes.”

Owen checked his watch. “Everyone’s probably still celebrating.”

If not everyone, most of them certainly were – the team and their most ardent fans, still hugging and posing for pictures. Adam Starblind was busy talking to a journalist. Mike simply stalked down into the locker room. Owen wiped his glasses thoughtfully on the hem of his jersey. “I’ll see you later, then.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Before Affenlight could excuse himself from the throng of people, to collect his bag from the stand and send Pella a text message about Henry’s condition, Genevieve Wister had made her way over to hug Owen tightly. “Can you believe it, Guert? My little boy, winning a championship!”

“They’re all very talented young men,” Affenlight said diplomatically.

“I’m covered in dirt,” Owen objected, wriggling out of his mother’s grasp. “I think I’ll take a shower…”

“But the photos!” Genevieve protested.

“Everyone took plenty before the game, and it’s all on film. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

They stood and watched him go, Affenlight pondering a good excuse for simply leaving that didn’t depend on either ill health or some kind of Pella-related emergency. Genevieve, as he feared, immediately took his arm. “Guert… I have to admit I was hoping to have a moment. What do you say to grabbing some dinner after this? I know the boys won’t want us fuddy-duddies around, spoiling their fun.”

Ordinarily – which was to say, any time in Affenlight’s entire life up until a few months ago – he would have leapt at the idea of dinner with Genevieve: intelligent, well-educated, and with a sleek body most women half her age could only dream about. But there was no way he could possibly have a romantic dinner with his lover’s mother. “I, um, that sounds lovely,” he said, drawing on previously untapped reserves of polite charm, “but I do feel I should mention… I don’t want to assume anything regarding your intentions, but to lay my cards on the table, I should say that I’m in a relationship, a committed relationship, at the moment, and I would hate for…”

“Oh!” Genevieve said, and smiled. “Now I feel a little foolish. I did check with Pella.”

Affenlight smiled too. “Please don’t… I’m very flattered, and of course I’d love to have dinner sometime, but… as friends, of course.”

“Of course!” She plucked at his sleeve, giving him a sly grin. “The lucky lady couldn’t be here for the game?”

Obviously not leading on Owen’s mother was going to come into conflict with his more usual dictum of not outright lying to other people, particularly when the other person in question was someone who might very well one day discover that the “lucky lady” was her college-age son. “Well, I’m sure many people watched it on TV,” he said, and was soon rescued by Duane Jenkins, the Westish athletic director, who came to pump his arm with a fierce handshake and bend his ear on budgetary issues.

Two hours later, his head still ringing with the shouts and singing and celebrations of the players – or, to be more accurate, the parents, who certainly had more energy at this point than any of their sons – Affenlight slipped into his hotel room, dumped his bag on the bed, and locked the door behind him. He was reasonably confident no one but Owen knew where he was, and Owen would be occupied with his teammates for hours yet, if he managed to get away at all.

Resisting the temptation to simply crash onto the bed and sleep, he investigated the bathroom and took a long, hot shower that not only washed away the sweat and dirt of the day, but lessened some of the tension he’d been piling on about his current predicament. None of the facts had changed beyond Owen’s tiny displays of affection, but for now that almost seemed like enough.

As it was a non-smoking room, which he’d thought was a good, healthy idea at the time, he made himself some coffee and lay down on the bed in his t-shirt and boxers to continue reading. The book was mostly finished by the time there was a tap-tap-tap at the door and Affenlight stiffly roused himself to go answer it. 

Outside in the hallway stood a brown-skinned young man in tight jeans and a white t-shirt, carrying a bottle of cheap champagne and smiling broadly. “Room service?” he asked, and Affenlight kissed him. 

There was no way basic physics would allow Owen to just pick Affenlight up and throw him against the wall, but it didn’t matter. Affenlight was perfectly happy to let Owen shove him there, dropping the bottle on the bed as they kissed and kissed again. Owen's hands slid under his shirt almost immediately, burning hot, and Affenlight wanted to tell him to lock the door, but that would've meant taking his mouth from Owen's for a moment and that was the one thing he really couldn't bring himself to do.

But Owen tugged Affenlight’s shirt up and off, and then backed up a step, pushing the door fully closed and turning the latch before pressing back up against him, pushing the palm of Affenlight's hand against the significant bulge in his jeans, which certainly wasn't all zipper and fabric. “I've been this hard all night… Don't know how I even managed to walk here.”

“No one saw you?” The sooner they could drop all this ridiculous secrecy, like they were Cold War spies, the better. 

Owen shook his head. “I went up to our floor, switched elevators, went up again and then walked down. If anyone's watching the security cams they're probably absolutely fascinated.”

“Mm.” Affenlight could feel the thrumming of Owen's heart through his body, from arousal, from dodging his teammates, or from the ecstatic high of winning the championship just hours ago. Somehow Affenlight suspected the thrill of kissing him didn't quite compare to sliding into home plate, scoring the winning run, netting the Harpooners their first ever national championship in 104 attempts… Had anyone ever looked at Owen, slender and bookish and, yes, gay, and thought he could hit like that? “You were incredible today,” he said. “You're always incredible.”

“The party's crazy,” Owen said, eyes full of wonder. “I mean, I've seen the guys party before, but I've never... Guert, there were just so many _girls_ , women I've never seen before, and they wanted to go back to my room with me. Guys too, actually.” He seemed to anticipate the look in Affenlight's eye. “None as hot as you, don't worry.”

“I'll bet.”

“And reporters! I've dreamed my whole life about journalists caring about my opinions, so I could get the real issues out there, gay rights, global warming… But all they wanted to talk about was baseball, of course, as if being a gay right fielder in Division III college ball matters to anyone. Well, it probably does, actually. I'll have an inbox full of hate mail by Monday morning. A couple of LGBT bloggers already found my Westish e-mail address. It's like I'm this big story just because I was batting at the right time, when really if anyone deserves praise it's Mike. And I mean Adam and Sal played beyond what anyone even imagined their limits might be. I was only even playing because Sooty banged up his knee, and-”

Affenlight touched a hand to his shoulder. “Owen. Sweetheart.”

“I know, I'm talking too much. I'm too excited and I'm not even stoned. And look at you, Guert, I mean, god, look at you…” His fingertips ran down Affenlight's bare chest as if he'd never seen it before. “Poor Henry's in the hospital and Mike can hardly walk and you're practically naked and I'm just babbling at you.”

“Maybe you need something to eat.”

Owen smiled. “You're such a parent, Guert. But I think I just really need to come.”

Affenlight gave his crotch an experimental squeeze. “That can probably be arranged.” 

Owen just leaned into him until their mouths met again, an urgent sort of kissing Affenlight was dimly aware he should have experienced himself when he was Owen’s age or thereabouts, in the grip of hormones and desperate mating urges, but he’d spent too much of his youth in dumbstruck awe of women and then suddenly won himself an effortless, cool charisma that allowed him to find partners for the evening with remarkable ease. He’d kissed women to be polite, or because he liked them, but rarely ever in the way Owen kissed him, which was as if they were both running out of air.

He pulled Owen’s t-shirt off one-handed, dropping it to the floor with the kind of carelessness you could afford in hotels. Owen’s skin was hot and smooth under his hands, an even, unbruised tone, although Owen groaned against his throat when he pushed in a little harder. He’d played a lot of games, hit a lot of pitches, over-reached and thrown himself around how many times, striving to catch an impossible ball?

“Did you ever win a championship?” Owen asked, hopping out of his shoes, kicking them toward the bed.

“A championship?” Perhaps now that the Harpooners had won one, they assumed everyone else must know what it was like. “Maybe in elementary school. We won one game in my junior year.”

“One game? But Guert, surely the opposition must have been absolutely mesmerized by you in those tight pants.”

Affenlight gave him a look and jerked down his jeans. “Speaking of tight pants…”

“I’d expect better segues from an English professor,” Owen commented, and shut up particularly quickly as Affenlight began to stroke him through his briefs (today a lemony yellow), rocking his hips, but also slipping his hands lightly down Affenlight’s back and beyond the elastic of his own underwear, squeezing his ass and then moving round to cup and gently tug on his thickening penis.

Throughout his entire sexual experience, Affenlight had always enjoyed the physical reactions of his lovers, but they’d never been quite so obvious, so undeniable, as the erection straining at Owen’s briefs. Once he would have been embarrassed to see another man that way, let alone to know he was the reason for it. Now it went beyond the reassurance that, yes, Owen did want him, coming full circle with a passion and a force to convince Affenlight that he wanted Owen as well: all of Owen, the purely physical as well as the brilliance of his mind, and whatever came between those two points which, Affenlight thought, probably included his laughter during a phone call, fingertips tousling Affenlight’s hair, the steady beat of his heart lulling them both to sleep.

They fell into bed together, side by side, clothes discarded and the champagne bottle carefully set down on the floor before Owen hooked a leg over Affenlight’s thigh and rubbed up against him as they kissed. “I think you need to fuck me,” Owen said.

“You think?”

“I’ll come too quickly. I need you _in_ me.” He rubbed a finger against the bridge of his nose and then took off his glasses, setting them by the alarm clock. “No more blowing me and then jacking off later. I love making you come, _feeling_ you come… Do you know what that’s like?”

Affenlight thought he did. “But I could blow you first, if you need…” The conversations he’d been having about sex recently had involved an entirely different vocabulary. As well as taking into account many new parameters, such as always having good lubricant on hand and considering the vastly different sexual stamina of a much younger partner.

“I really just want you,” Owen said.

Without his glasses, Owen seemed to look, if not more beautiful, then more vulnerable, maybe even more innocent despite the way his long fingers were curled around Affenlight’s penis, despite the way his body was quite clearly that of a man, a grown man, a man who won baseball championships and had girls and boys falling all over him.

As Owen dragged out pillows from under several layers of tightly-folded bedclothes and arranged them on top of the covers, Affenlight felt a sudden, yet expected, twinge of guilt and remorse. He could tell Owen everything now. It would be unfair not to. Owen still thought he was president, that they would go on doing what they had been doing, if not forever then at least until the end of the summer. But now, with Owen lying down, a pillow beneath his hips, relaxing with a sigh, it seemed like the worst possible time.

Affenlight pulled lubricant and a condom packet from his bag, stroking himself as he gazed at Owen’s naked body, trying to keep his mind on his more immediate needs. When they’d started having penetrative sex a month or so ago, Affenlight had quickly been able to put aside all the concerns he had about Owen being inside him – it just _felt_ so damn good. His concerns about being inside Owen, however, still lingered. However experienced Owen was, even at twenty-one, Affenlight could never really lose the fear of hurting him. It was irrational, of course – most of Affenlight’s female partners over the years had been smaller and at least ostensibly more fragile than Owen – but it nagged at him, even as Owen eagerly pushed back against his lubricated fingers, moaning softly into another pillow.

When he spread Owen’s legs and began to ease inside him, Owen’s eyes fluttered closed and the noise that came from his throat was so close to a groan of pain that Affenlight stopped immediately. Almost as quickly, Owen’s hand was pulling at his hip. “Oh god don’t stop, don’t stop.”

Affenlight let himself breathe again and pushed in all the way, forcing himself to interpret Owen’s gasps and moans as expressions of pleasure rather than precisely the opposite. If it really hurt, if Owen really wanted him to stop, Owen was more than capable of saying so. But what he was actually saying was, “Fuck me, just fuck me”, one hand snaking under to touch himself as the desires of Affenlight’s body finally overcame the doubts of his mind.

His eyes were closed when his head finally hit the pillow some ten or fifteen minutes later, one hand going to rest between Owen’s shoulders. It was late, late, horribly late, and they would have to wake early tomorrow, to get Owen back to the room he should be sleeping in now before they all had to get to the airport. Fortunately, it was unlikely he would be missed before then. Most of his teammates were probably sleeping in the wrong rooms as well, and-

“I love you,” Owen said.

Affenlight opened his eyes. They were six inches apart, so Owen could focus on him perfectly, giving him a sweet smile that, after too many moments passed, resolved itself into more of a doubtful look. 

“Was that too soon? You’ve said it to me.”

And every time he’d said it, it had been far too soon as well. If any one of Affenlight’s girlfriends had said “I love you” after less than two months he would have left them immediately. Well, he would have left immediately at any time in the relationship, but under two months he’d have lost all respect for them too. Owen had always seemed to just accept it, or ignore it, because these were unusual circumstances or because they were both inclined to be stupidly romantic.

He swallowed. “O…”

Owen’s smile was back, just a little sad now. “I had half an idea you were going to break up with me tonight. It’s not that you don’t care, of course. I know you do. But Pella’s upset and you have to put her first, I understand that. I’m not a parent, but I understand that. And you’re buying this house, and of course I’m going to Tokyo in a few months anyway, and how long could the college president really go on screwing one of his students?”

It sounded so much like the inner monologue of his conscience lately that he had to blink again, a bright pain in his chest. “I’m not…” Either way, this was going to hurt and, either way, he couldn’t find the right words. He stroked Owen’s back instead, right down to his tailbone. “I’m not breaking up with you,” he said finally. “I love you too.”

“So why all these agonized looks? Pella’s not going to hate you forever, Guert. She doesn’t even hate you now.”

“I know.” Their recent e-mails had been quite amiable, and today’s phone call, though brief, seemed to point toward hope of reconciliation. “But she’s going to hate me tomorrow. I don’t know that she’ll ever really forgive me.”

Owen was justifiably puzzled. “What happens tomorrow?”

“It’s not about tomorrow…” He took in a breath, a long deep breath that should have steadied his nerves but in fact did nothing of the sort. “After I spoke to you yesterday, Bruce Gibbs and Dean Melkin came to see me. I’ve been asked for my resignation.”

“They want you to _resign_? That’s crazy. That’s fantabulously crazy. Is this about the budget?”

 _Say yes_. “No. Someone saw us at the motel.”

Owen’s eyes met his, as if looking for evidence that this could possibly be, in some way, a malicious joke. “It’s still crazy,” he said. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I’ve been conducting a sexual relationship with a student. Of course I did something wrong.”

“I’m twenty-one years old. There’s no legal reason to penalize either one of us. You’re not my doctor or psychiatrist, Guert, you’re an administrator. If they’re worried you somehow influenced my grades, they can talk to my professors. Hell, they can get me to write the papers again in a locked room if they want.”

“That’s not the issue. Besides, as they pointed out, I have done quite a lot in your interest.”

Owen frowned and sat up, crossing his legs. “That’s ridiculous. Are they seriously going to argue that you had some sort of sexual interest in a seventeen-year-old kid from San Jose you’d never met or even seen when you advocated for me to win the Maria Westish Award? And then, as part of your cunning strategy to seduce me, you didn’t talk to me for two and a half years?”

“O…”

“I bet they’re pissed about the environmental initiatives. Well that’s ridiculous too, and we have the signatures on the petitions to prove it. Mrs. McCallister can testify nothing untoward went on during our meetings. You’d already submitted the proposals before we even kissed. So you had a crush on me, who cares? Are we going to legislate against fantasies now, too? Presumably the next time Bruce Gibbs meets with a leggy blonde catering supplier he’ll have to deny her bid just to avoid the appearance of impropriety.”

Affenlight sat up too. He felt almost unbearably weary. “You might be right, but the point is irrelevant. Any college staff member who has a relationship, even a platonic one, with a student of any age is in violation of the college code. I was seen with you at a motel, O. By the parents of another student. Even if we’d simply been playing chess in that room it wouldn’t matter.”

“Do you honestly think that?” Owen might not have had any of the training to be a lawyer, but he certainly had the inbuilt righteous fury to argue cases in court. “If someone had seen you at a motel with a white, female student in her forties, say, would any parent have reported it? And, if they had, would the deans or trustees care?”

Affenlight combed through his hair with his fingers. He needed a haircut. Or not, given that soon he’d be representing no one but himself. “Perhaps not. But you’re not a female student in your forties.” The race issue surely wasn’t an issue at all, was it? Maybe, as a white man who lived in an overwhelmingly white state, he was being hopelessly naïve.

“The code shouldn’t care, which only points out how ridiculous it is. Soon Pella’s going to be a student – wouldn’t they worry about her influencing your policies too? If Mike takes that job with the athletic department, is he going to be banned from dating her? And don’t suggest this is all out of some concern that I’m being abused. We went to that motel a month ago. If anyone had really thought I was there against my will, leaving it a month to talk to either one of us would be unconscionable.”

“I agree.” Affenlight nodded. “But I still don’t have a leg to stand on. I’m guilty of the infraction. Even if I wasn’t, I serve at the pleasure of the trustees. They can fire me anytime they like.”

Owen sighed. “You play by the rules too much, Guert. We could make this a real issue. You’re a great president. You’re a real hero here at Westish, and they’re firing you because you fell in love? We could get the media on our side. Tell the students. I know most of them are going to think it’s just as stupid and bigoted as I do.”

“A Westish civil war?” Affenlight permitted himself one small smile, and took Owen’s hands. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. But Westish isn’t some institution I want to take down. Making this a fight will only hurt the college in the long run. And heaven forbid it jeopardized the safety of any student who legitimately was being preyed upon by a staff member, let alone the academic integrity of the institution. So tomorrow I’m going to write a very polite letter of resignation, and Pella’s going to hate me, and then… I don’t know what I’ll do. Maybe I’ll buy the house anyway. Spend a year writing my book. Wait for her to need me again.”

Owen’s head was bowed in anger and exasperation – at the college, at Affenlight himself too, most likely – but at least he was still here, still holding Affenlight’s hands. Maybe they could still have the summer Affenlight had lazily dreamed about. They’d sit out in the backyard of the Bremens’ old house with Contango and read to each other in the sunshine by the lake, where no one could see them. They’d skinnydip in the cool water and soak through Affenlight’s sheets when they made love.

“What if you came with me?”

“What?”

Owen lifted his head. “What if you came with me to Tokyo?”

“O, I can’t go to Tokyo.”

“Why not? You just said you wouldn’t have anything to do for the next year, and I don’t think sitting around moping at Westish will be very productive. Yes, I understand Pella’s here, but she’s a grown woman with studies and a job and a social life of her own. Being on the end of a phone line for nine months won’t irrevocably ruin your relationship. She could come visit, too. She’d love Japan.”

Affenlight felt battered by reason and logic, which, coupled with Owen’s mellifluous voice and the fact he was suggesting something Affenlight already wanted more than words could express, made it very hard to come up with a good counter-argument. “I doubt the Japanese government would like me sticking around for nine months. I wouldn’t have a student visa arranged by the Trowells.”

“No, but I bet you could find a friend of a friend at the University of Tokyo and work something out. You’re an esteemed academic, not a cartel member.”

He could almost imagine it: the two of them sharing a small apartment in a city where no one knew them and fewer people cared. A whole new culture to explore, another countryside to roam, and of course Japan had many historical and present-day ties to whaling… Owen’s reassuring squeeze of his hands brought him back to the present.

“But you wouldn’t really want me there,” he said.

Owen looked at him. “Wouldn’t I? Because I believe I just invited you.”

“O, this is an incredible opportunity for you. You’re going to have the chance to do so many things, meet so many new people... Tokyo’s not Westish. There are bars, clubs, a whole gay culture. You don’t want some old man trailing after you everywhere, holding you back.”

“Guert.” So many people had butchered his name over the years that it was always nice to hear it said the way he himself said it. Owen was smiling. “I’m not interested in bars and clubs, and I’m not with you because Westish has a gay population in the single digits. I want you with me, but I’m under no illusions we’d be spending all our time together. I’ll have classes. You can go to the museums, get to know the city, do some writing if you want. This is what a relationship _is_ , Guert. Going on dates. Talking to each other. Making plans together. And I’d like to do that with you.”

Two months. It was ridiculous to talk about living together, even in the short term, let alone in another country where neither of them knew another soul. But they had the next three months at Westish to try it out on more familiar territory, and it wasn’t as if Affenlight had any doubts at all about his own feelings. 

“You’re going to tell your mother?” he asked, and the sudden uncertainty he saw in Owen’s eyes suggested that he should’ve led with that argument all along.

“I’ll have to.” Owen gave his hands a final squeeze and got up from the bed, picking up the champagne from the floor. “It’s a bit warm,” he said apologetically, and searched the room for glasses, winding up with two cups from the coffee set. “Not to mention cheap.”

It tasted fairly horrible after they’d clinked cups and tried it, but there was no scotch on offer and no cigarettes, and Owen had, after all, just won a championship.

“It shouldn’t be so bad,” Owen said thoughtfully while they were on their second cups. “Genevieve is a modern woman with very liberal views. She knows I’m gay. And she really likes you.”

Affenlight hated to worry him, but tomorrow was going to bring a lot of harsh truths to light. “You’re her son, O. I’m a sixty-one-year-old man she barely knows who’s been sneaking around having sex with her son.”

“You’re the man I _love_ , Guert. She’s not going to think you’re some kind of sexual predator.”

“Really? I’m a modern person with very liberal views too, but I still felt like hiring a hitman when Pella ran off with her ex.”

Owen gulped down the remainder of his champagne, pulled a face, and set both of their cups next to his glasses on the bedside table. “The difference is I’m not running anywhere. I’m here, I’m obviously fine, I’m not cutting off communication with my mom. We’re not getting married. No one needs to worry you’ll get me pregnant.”

He lay down with a sigh, hands folded over his belly. “I don't expect that she’ll actually be _happy_ , Guert. Of course she’ll be upset and concerned. But she’ll come round eventually, and it’ll be worth it to have a relationship that involves absolutely no skulking around in motels or behind locked doors.”

Affenlight just looked at him, so relaxed, so pacific, so confident and so innocent in his belief that things could actually work out the way he wanted them to, as if there wasn’t an entire world beyond that locked door that would be against them both, for a myriad of reasons. Still, the future Owen described was so appealing, and he personally had so very little left to lose, that it seemed at least as if it might be worth a try. 

Owen opened his eyes halfway, extending a hand. “Hey… come here. Everything’s going to be okay. I promise.”

“I’m supposed to be the one looking after you,” Affenlight protested as he lay down and let himself be enveloped by Owen’s arms.

Owen chuckled. “Why? Just because you’re older?”

“I’m more experienced…” Owen had a point, though, had been having far too many points this evening. Just because Affenlight had been in more relationships didn’t mean he was any better at them. If anything, it made him more predisposed to imagine the worst. With his head against Owen’s chest, Affenlight felt better than he had all day. “I just don’t want to ruin your life.”

“I’m a skinny gay nerd and I just won a baseball championship,” Owen said. “Don’t you want to see what I’m going to do tomorrow?”


End file.
